Hi, I’m Jane – and I’ve been living with HIV since I was 23.

If you had told 23-year-old me that I would be here, writing this, happy, healthy, and planning for a child, I wouldn’t have believed you. But here I am. I’m 38 years old, and HIV has not defined my life – it has simply been a part of it. I have loved, I have lost, I have grown, and most importantly, I have lived.

And now, as my husband and I prepare to bring a child into this world, I want to share my story. Maybe someone out there needs to hear it.

If you could write a letter to your younger self on the day of your diagnosis, what would you say?

“Hi Jane, I’m you from the future. Right now, your mind is racing, your heart is heavy, and you feel like the world just collapsed around you. But listen to me: your life is not over. In fact, it’s just the beginning.

HIV will not stop you from living, from loving, from dreaming. There will be incredible people who come into your life, places you never thought you’d go, and moments so beautiful they will take your breath away. You will also lose people, and there will be pain, but you will survive. Because that’s what we do. You are still you, and you are still worthy of love. And yes, despite what you fear, people will still want to be with you. You will find love in its purest form. You will laugh, you will cry, and one day, you will hold your child in your arms. Life will be strange, wonderful, and worth every second.

Oh, and we still don’t have wrinkles yet, but girl, we did gain some weight. Maybe don’t have that second serving."

Do you remember the first time you felt truly okay after being diagnosed?

It took two years. Two years before I finally exhaled. At first, I thought I had to tell people immediately, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I told my close family right away, and one of them was inconsolable. She thought she had lost me. That moment broke my heart more than my diagnosis did. But as time passed, something miraculous happened: nothing changed. I didn’t drop dead. I found an amazing job, moved into my own place, and had a partner who loved me. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t just "living with HIV" — I was just living.

I started traveling more, exploring places I had only dreamed of visiting. I met people from all walks of life, many of whom didn’t know my status and just saw me for who I was. I danced under the stars, swam in oceans, and laughed so hard my stomach hurt. HIV was always there, but it was never the main character in my story. I was.

I still remember the exact day I felt like I had reclaimed my life. I was sitting at a cafe in Italy, sipping coffee and watching the world go by, and I realized: I was happy. Not "happy despite HIV." Just happy. And that’s when I knew — I was going to be okay.

How long did it take you to truly believe that you could still be a mother?

Years. And honestly, not even because of HIV. Motherhood always felt like something that other people did. I worried about the usual things: would I be good enough? Would my child love me? Would I even want to be a mom?

But HIV gave me the perfect excuse to say, "No, it’s not for me." It let me hide from those fears. Until I met my husband. He wanted children, and for the first time, I had to really think about it. When I finally asked my doctor, the answer shocked me: I could have a child, and it would be completely safe. A simple medication change was all it took. And when I learned I could breastfeed without risk to my baby? That was the moment it became real. Motherhood was not just possible; it was mine to claim.

I started reading everything I could about pregnancy, HIV, and parenting. I found support groups with other women who had been in my shoes. Their stories gave me courage, and I knew I wasn’t alone. And now, as we prepare to start this journey, I feel nothing but excitement.

How did your husband react when you first talked about having children together?

He was the one who brought it up. Despite knowing my status, he had already done the research. He sat me down and said, "I want you to carry our child." I panicked. This was something I had never truly considered, and suddenly, it was real. But we took our time. We checked our fertility (both of us were fine), talked to doctors, and slowly, my fears faded. Now, we’re on this journey together, and I can’t wait for what’s next.

He never once made me feel "less than." He never saw me as a risk or a burden. He just saw me. And that’s all I ever wanted.

If your future child asked about your diagnosis, how would you explain it?

That depends on the question. If they ask, "What is HIV?" I’ll tell them the truth. If they ask, "How did you get it?" I’ll answer — appropriately for their age.

I don’t believe in hiding things from children. The truth, when given with love, is never harmful. If they want the full story when they’re adults, I’ll tell them everything. But they will always know this: their mother is strong, and her love for them is bigger than any diagnosis.

Has your diagnosis affected your sense of intimacy with your partner?

At first, yes. My first long-term partner was incredibly supportive — until he wasn’t. When we broke up, I found out he had been scared of people finding out about my status. That hurt more than anything.

But love didn’t stop. Over the years, I met incredible people, people who saw me, not my diagnosis. And now, with my husband, intimacy is not a fear — it’s a gift. Yes, I make him get tested regularly, but that’s for my peace of mind. Love, trust, and honesty are what matter most.

What’s one dream you’re still chasing, aside from motherhood?

Okay, don’t laugh, but I want a motorbike. And to be in a rock band. I know, I know, not exactly "mom-friendly," but hey, we all have dreams.

What’s the legacy you want to leave behind - not just as a mother, but as a person?

I don’t need statues or grand speeches. If I made someone’s life a little brighter, that’s enough for me.

If your story could help just one person feel hopeful again, what would you want them to know?

You are not dirty. You are not diseased. That’s outdated thinking. Medicine has come so far, and we now have treatments that make HIV manageable. People diagnosed in the 80s are still alive today.

And most importantly: you are not alone. You never have to go through this alone.

Life with HIV is just life. It’s full of love, loss, dreams, and laughter. It’s not what I expected at 23, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And now, as I prepare to become a mother, I know one thing for sure: I am ready.

To anyone reading this who is struggling: you are not your diagnosis. You are you. And that is enough.

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